


when playin’ jazz you always has a welcome mat

by Sorrel



Series: everybody wants to be a cat [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Under-negotiated Kink, honesty is overrated, identity fuckery, kink dynamics, no ship like partnership, self-awareness is overrated, undercover nookie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorrel/pseuds/Sorrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>’cause everybody digs a swinging cat</i>
</p><p>Sequel to “a cat’s the only cat who knows how to swing.”  Two weeks isn’t long enough to forget what happened on their last undercover op, and when their next mission has them spending a week undercover, the lines start to blur.  <i>Honesty,</i> as Deacon would say, <i>is entirely overrated.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	when playin’ jazz you always has a welcome mat

**Author's Note:**

> Why did this get so long. Why.

It happens again.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After their work in Goodneighbor, PAM sends them out on a series of recon and cleanup jobs, the kind of down-and-dirty combat missions that are Whisper's specialty. Before the Switchboard went down, Deacon had more or less gotten out of combat runs altogether: he could hold his own, sure, but there was always somebody better suited. With the roster of active full-status agents down to just him and Glory, he'd picked up a bit more of the slack, where he could. Technically, now that they have Whisper on the roster, he should be back to working intel full-time again. On the other hand, rules are for suckers, and Deacon's not the sort to pass up on a good time just because it's the responsible thing to do.

And working with Whisper _is_ a good time. She's fast, she's ruthless, and no one ever sees her coming. He can tell that she's done a lot of work on her own, either for the Minutemen or during her life before them, whatever that was. But she's also very good at taking point in the field, in the effortless way that tells him he's not the first partner she's had. He doesn't ask who her previous one (or ones) was (or were.) What would be the point? She's here now.

And aside from the pleasure of working with someone supremely capable and (he likes to flatter himself) almost as subtle as he is, there's something satisfying in turning over the keys to this crazy joyride and seeing what she does with them. He's got no problems taking point when they're working an undercover op, 'cause that's what he does and there's no one better. But in the general run of things, he's always found it easier to follow someone else's lead. Inherent laziness, maybe. (That's what he tells Dez every time she brings it up, at least.) Or maybe it just feels simpler that way, like he doesn't have to worry about what happens next. All he has to do is point and shoot, and he's never had any problems doing that.

Historically, he hasn’t always had the best luck following someone else’s lead. But he likes to think he’s just a _bit_ better judge of character then he was at fifteen, and while Whisper doesn’t mind getting down in the muck to get shit done, it’s not… She’s not dirty, either. It’s good work, clean work. Necessary. Deacon likes making himself useful, whether that means a word in the right ear or a bullet in someone’s back. Whisper, bless her sneaky little heart, seems to like it best when there’s a mix of both.

Any road, Whisper's his favorite to follow, and not just because she's good at what they do. Mostly, it's because Whisper makes it _fun._ That's one downside to throwing your hat in with a bunch of crusader-types. You get an excess of tight-jawed tight-asses with a savior complex, which is probably pretty great if you're one of the ones getting yourself saved, but a little less pleasant when you're the one who has to hang out with them all the time. Whisper does things like leave mines under the seats of latrines when they're infiltrating a raider nest, or give all their targets stupid nicknames and use them straight-faced through the entire op, or on one particularly memorable occasion, lure a bunch of muties into running around in circles and then creep back up to the rooftops to sit next to him and laugh for a minute straight before she pulls out her rifle.

It's not boring, is what he's saying. Deacon does so hate to be bored.

This bit of fun lasts for about two weeks, this time around. They clear out some of the usual patrol routes, make things a little easier on some of their tourists and any other human who , tag some caches for PAM and place one of Tinker's little pet projects. (Deacon leaves that one to Whisper. Him and high places don't get along very well.) They sleep through the days and tear through the streets at night, making the city a little safer for their people, and Deacon feels something in his center start to fall back into alignment. He was maybe a little worried, considering what went down on their last op, that things would be weird between them- sex fucks up the most well-intentioned of people, and he’s got reason to know- but it's not like that at all. There's the same smooth, easy intimacy that they've had from day one, sleeping back-to-back on doubled-up bedrolls and bickering over their cooking and cracking jokes on the comms even when they're supposed to be running silent.

Hell, if anything they're better than ever. They keep anticipating each other in the field in a way that he’s got enough experience to know is rare: Deacon's bullet in the back of the raider about to put a knife in her back, Whisper's blade through the throat of the mutant hound about to take a chunk out of him, a change of plan communicated with a single furtive glance or annoyed click of the tongue. The same responsiveness, the absolute attention that she's always given him undercover seems to seep into their fieldwork, until they’re moving like a well-oiled machine, one job after another after another.

It is, in a word, fuckin' sweet.

Even Glory says something, the next time they risk a trip down to HQ to pick up Tinker's next device. "Nice job at Camp Kendall, D," she tells him, lounging against Tinker's table with her ankles crossed in front of her. "High Rise said they've never had such a clean patrol."

"Well, you know I do like to impress," Deacon drawls. He’s not sure what’s she’s up to, but Glory’s not the sort to give out compliments unless she wants something. "Can't have you showing me up all the time, you know?"

"Like you could keep up with me on my best day," she snorts. "Still. Heard you and the new kid were fuckin' cleaning house out there."

"We try," he says modestly. Still wondering what she's getting at.

"Not like you to do your own fieldwork. I thought you left that shit to the big kids."

Ah. "Well, they don't come any bigger than you, angel," he says, and has to duck very fast to avoid her fist in his face. "See? My reflexes are just fine."

"Fuckin' asshole," she growls. "You don't have to be such a dick about it. I was just curious, is all."

"Aww, Glorifinous, I didn't know you cared." Creator save him from people's _curiosity._ Getting all up in other people's business is _his_ job, damn it. "She's my rookie, you know. I'm supposed to be teaching her the ropes."

"The way I hear it, she's got a thing or two to teach _you,_ " Glory says, and laughs. Temper like a rad storm, does their dear Glory; twice as fierce and just as fast to blow over. "Still, man, glad it's working out, all I'm tryna say. Can't complain about the work."

Which means that someone's tried to, probably with increasing frequency, if it's pinging Glory's radar. Dez or Carrington, that's the question. Deacon's bet is on Carrington; old bastard's never been happy about Whisper coming in how she did, and he knows damn well the blame for that is squarely on Deacon's shoulders. Mind you, Deacon tends to think of it more like _credit,_ considering what an asset Whisper turned out to be, but still. And now with him out in the field with her so much… Yeah, that would set the tongues wagging.

"Your appreciation is appreciated, Glorifindel," he says, and has to duck another swing, this one a little slower, not much weight behind it. "See? I'm getting all kinds of practice these days."

He's still thinking about it a couple days later, when he gets word from one of his sources that there's a merchant coming in with one of the caravans that's been seen talking to a lot of runners for someone who supposedly has no outside family. Could be nothing, could be something, but there's only one way to find out. He leaves Whisper to give their report to Drums and heads into Dez's office to let her know that they’ll be going dark for a week.

She looks up from her paperwork with a serious expression and jerks her chin past his shoulder. "Close the door, please, Deacon."

_Well, shit,_ he thinks, and does as she asks. "What's the what, boss? If it's about our little mole rat infestation, I solemnly swear I am not the one who left those teeth on your desk."

"Don't be stupid, I know that was Glory," she says dismissively. "No, I wanted to check in with you about Whisper. She's doing well?"

_Red alert, red alert._ Deacon's not stupid enough to think this is anything but a trap, so he does what he always does: starts talking and hopes for the best. "Peachy keen. We've been rocking and rolling out there."

"Yes, I've read the reports." But there's a pensive frown on her face, which is never a good sign. Dez isn't the first alpha he's answered to, but in some ways she's the most perceptive. Carrington isn't wrong to say that tactics aren't her strong suit, but she's got a better eye for people than he gives her credit for, too. She sees through Deacon's bullshit better than most, at least. "And there have been quite a number of them. I'm a little concerned about how much we're asking her to take on, for such a new agent."

It doesn't _sound_ like an incoming accusation of favoritism on Deacon's part. He allows himself to relax fractionally. "She's still not working at Glory's volume, boss."

"No, but neither does she have Glory's field experience," Desdemona says, quickly and firmly. "Nor do we have Glory doing double duty with intel-gathering missions, either."

_Ah. Busted._ He knew he shouldn't have relaxed so quickly. "Mostly because Glory doesn't have the chops for it," he points out, which is, at least, something that no one can dispute. Glory is a lot of things, but she’s not fuckin’ subtle. "And besides, Whisper might be new to our game but she did come to us pre-experienced, as it were. She’s got the knack, she’s got the time, and she’s got no problems taking the risks.” _Bring it home, boyo._ “I wouldn’t be pulling her in if we didn’t need her,” he says, which is basically untrue but sounds good, and then adds slightly more righteously, “You know most of our operations dried up after the Switchboard went down. We're going to be flying blind out there until we can get some of the intel chains up and running again.”

"Hmm," Dez says, which isn't quite a yes but not quite a no, either. "I suppose you have been going out of your way to support her missions as well. And we can't complain about the quality of the work that's being done." She looks up from her notes, and her hazel eyes are searching. Say what you like about Dez, but she has the terrifying schoolmarm look _down_. "Do _you_ have any reason to think that Whisper is under any undue strain in the field?"

The trick to a good lie, Deacon's learned after a lifetime of practice, is to be able to believe it yourself, if only in the moment that you say it. You don't have to commit to it afterwards, if it's too big to swallow, but in the moment you say it you need to _believe_ it. You need to feel it like you would if you're telling the truth. If you're sad, be sad. If you're angry, be angry! If you're offended, be one hundred and ten percent offended. Don't oversell it, but be sincere.

Deacon is a good liar, the best he knows. Everyone knows he's a liar, because everyone's caught him lying more times than they can count. Which means that no one ever catches him when he's actually trying, because everyone's pretty sure that they've gotten good enough to figure out his tells. They’ve never figured out that when he's lying for real, he doesn't have any tells.

"Not a one, boss lady," he says, and doesn’t think about Whisper's tongue in his mouth, her desperate grasp on his arms that left pink marks for him to find the next morning even through his shirt, the tight wet heat of her cunt. Because Deacon, Deacon lives in the moment. "It's been smooth as silk. Lucky as a charm. Quiet as a, well-" He gives his trademark cocky smile, and Dez cuts him off with an exasperated wave of her hand before he can finish his pun. Rude.

"Enough," Dez sighs. "I get the point. I know this is probably futile to ask of you of all people, but if you do notice any problems, will you please bring them to me first? I know she's your recruit, and you're clearly naturally protective of her-"

Internally, he winces. He knew he was overselling it, spinning that story to get Dez onboard with her as a full agent. If he'd known it was going to keep causing problems this far down the line, he probably would have toned it down a bit. The truth was plenty impressive on its own, anyway.

"-but the safety and well-being of our members is my responsibility, and the last thing I want to do is overload our newest agent into a potentially dangerous situation. I know that we're in something of a precarious situation currently, but we don't need the extra so badly that we should put our own people at risk."

_I think this is the most tactful dressing-down I've ever received,_ he thinks. "Hear ya loud and clear, boss," he says, with his best approximation of a chastened grin. "You'll get no argument from me."

"Hmph," Dez says, and visibly decides to let it go. "Good luck on your mission, Deacon. You know how to reach me if you need something in the meantime."

"Will do," he says, and gives her a huge wink as he walks backward out of her office. Her snort of disgust is music to his ears.

_Skated on that one, boyo,_ he tells himself. Still, though, he can’t help but wonder. What if Dez is right? What if he’s been pushing Whisper too hard, asking her to take on too much? Tactically speaking, both of them could probably be more used more efficiently with better downtime if they split up. Just because Deacon’s having a good time with it isn’t enough reason to keep going, not if it’s going to be a problem for her. Tired people make mistakes, get sloppy, get hurt. Or worse. That’s- well, if it’s not the _very_ last thing he wants to happen, it’s pretty damn close to the bottom of the list.

"Ay, Deke!" Whisper’s bellow interrupts his musings clear from the other side of the room. (For someone with her codename, she’s got a set of lungs on her.) "You ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

Yeah, pretty damn close to the bottom.

On the other hand, she doesn’t _sound_ like someone who’s getting worn down from too many ops. She definitely doesn’t sound like someone reluctant to take on the next one. If anything, she sounds eager to go, just like she’s done with everything else they’ve handed to her so far. At least with her he can be reasonably certain that she's enjoying the work and not just the crusade behind it. That shit can cause burnouts fast.

Besides, he’d have noticed if she was under any strain, right? No one better. And aside from, you know, the thing they don’t talk about, everything’s been a pretty fucking even keel, and who doesn’t like to blow off some steam sometime? Dez is probably worrying over nothing.

"You know it!" he calls back, and decides to let it go. He’ll keep an eye on her, and if there’s a problem they’ll deal with it. That’s what partners are supposed to do, right? "Get the stuff from Tinker, I'll meet you topside."

"Roger, Roger," she grins, and hops down from the counter where she's sitting talking to Drums, and lopes off. Deacon shrugs and heads off to trade out their gear from the stash. They're going to need something a little different from their usual.

Outside, Deacon leans back against the brick and tips his hat down low over his eyes, waiting for her to catch up and poking his way around the edges of the roles they’re going to need. They're going to have to ride with the caravan for a week, which means that they have to figure out something that they can maintain with relatively minimal effort, while still being able to make friends with the other caravanners, a naturally suspicious and unfriendly bunch. Laconic would be a good way to go, but it's not really either of their strong suits. Couple of chatterboxes, that's him and Whisper. It'll be hard to maintain.

By the time she makes it up a few minutes later, he's more or less figured out a plan of attack, though he's not sure if Whisper'll want to go for it. "Got a new core for my stealth boy," she says, brandishing it at him. "I can think of… oh, a half-dozen ways, easy, we can cause some trouble with _that._ "

"See, this is what I like about you, partner; you're always thinking." He slings a cheerful arm over her shoulders and steers her off down the road. shortening his stride so that she can keep up. One advantage to being a leftie? They can walk side-by-side and both of them have their gun hands free. Helpful, that. "Speaking of which. We hadn't decided yet how we wanted to get in with the caravan."

"Well, it'd be nice to hit 'em in Bunker Hill, but you're right, too obvious. Best bet would be to join them on the road sometime before and drop off there."

He beams and gives her shoulders a quick squeeze of approval. Man, it's nice working with someone who can keep up with him. "Ah, grasshopper, so quick to learn you are. The only problem is, we'd have to do it early. Five days, minimum. And if we're trying to keep a low profile…"

"...we need to blend in," she finishes. "Yeah, sure. I know I'm new to the spy business, but I _have_ ridden with a caravan before. We're not exactly the usual type."

Hmm. "Well aren’t you full of surprises. Anyway- yeah, I figure that's kind of the problem. The usual charm attack isn't going to work. So I'm thinking, go the opposite route. Gruff, mysterious combat veteran and shy, awkward drover." One eyebrow slowly creeps up, and he shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. "What? I couldn't get much of a profile on the target, but that covers our bases pretty neatly, gives us a couple avenues for approach depending on his type. And it seems about normal, based on my experiences with caravans."

"You're not wrong there," she says, with a little huff of a laugh. She's got that smile that means she's laughing at a private joke, and he frowns a little at her, but she doesn't explain. "No, it's good. We can definitely work with that. So who's doing what?"

The fact that she honestly doesn't seem to care is one of the many things he appreciates about her. "Could go either way. Want to flip a cap for it?"

"You grabbed these pants, you remember there being any caps in 'em?" She grins up at him. "Roshambo."

"Winner gets… which?"

"Gets to pick, obviously."

"Right, my mistake." They uncouple and face off in the street, clenched fist in open palm. "On the count of three. One, two…. three!"

They both look down at the same moment, and see his hand still in a fist- and hers in a flat line, palm down. "Hah! Paper covers rock," she crows, and suits action to word, cupping her smaller hand over his closed fist. "I'm calling dibs on guard."

He looks down at their joined hands: hers over his, comparatively small but a great deal more dangerous. "Sure thing, boss lady," he says, and then flips his hand open to give hers a quick squeeze before dropping away. "'Course, now there's only one thing left to do."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Steal a brahmin."

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They do not steal a brahmin. They while away a fun afternoon _planning_ to steal a brahmin, while they browse through the shops in Diamond City and pick up the supplies they'll need for a week on the road, but the next morning they hike out to a Minutemen-affiliated settlement that's not too far out of the city and he lurks a safe distance away until she comes back with a brahmin on a lead rope, a respectable number of packages already loaded onto its back.

"Lending you the beastie, I can understand," he says, while they change into their new caravan gear and stow the rest of their stuff for later pickup. She's put something in her hair to make it lie flat and forbidding against her scalp, and added an artful scar along her jawline that could have come from any manner of misfortunes. Deacon hasn't added any particular flourishes to his look- he’s still feeling his way around the new cover, but he’s at least sure sweet Billy isn’t the sort for flash- but he's wearing patched and stained clothes, heavy walking boots, and a short wig that's fairly close to his natural ginger. He considered freckles, but ultimately decided they'd be overkill, and too much effort to maintain besides. "But where did all the stuff come from?"

She gives him a scornful look- and if he's not mistaken, that particular _flavor_ of scorn can only have come from Glory. Good girl, starting to pick up other people's mannerisms already. He'll make a decent chameleon out of her yet. "They're farmers, Deke. How do you think they usually make a living, wait for people to wander by and pick up a few tatos for the road?"

"You say that like I haven't seen you do that very thing," he points out. He finishes lacing his boots and stands up. "What do you think?"

Her face is so still that for a moment he thinks that something's wrong, and he blinks at her, uncertain. Then a shadow of a smile tugs at the veriest corner of her mouth, and she gives a short nod. "You'll do," she says gruffly, and Deacon feels his shoulders straightening up automatically at her approval. "Let's get going. Need to find the others by dark."

And just like that, they're in character.

Deacon, never one to question when things are going well, wordlessly goes to tighten the straps on the brahmin, avoiding the bite to his elbow from the left head with practiced ease. Whisper pulls a cap on over her slicked-down curls and picks up her rifle, slinging it over her shoulder and sliding her combat knife down into her boot. "Ready?"

"Yeah, boss," he mumbles, ducking his head and taking the lead rein. She gives him a quick, rough squeeze on his shoulder, and then strides out ahead, her sharp-eyed gaze sweeping the horizon for any incoming threats. Deacon, as he will do for the next six days, falls into stride behind her, his gaze fixed on the narrow, sturdy line of her shoulders.

He's always liked following Whisper. When it comes down to it, this really isn’t any different.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Caravan travel is… interesting.

For the record, this is not the first time Deacon's ridden with a caravan. Not even the twentieth. But every other time, he's been there essentially as a tourist: a merchant or a soldier or just a drifter, jumping into train to gain a little safety in numbers on his way somewhere else. This is the first time he's walked the roads with them and been considered, however falsely, one of their own. He knew that caravanners were unfriendly to outsiders and not given to using five words when two will do, but he hadn't known about the rough sort of camaraderie that springs up on the road, the gruff teasing and the obscure nicknames and boredom-games. It's a whole new world for him, and Deacon blesses the shyness of his cover, giving him the opportunity to trudge along at Whisper's heels and drink in every detail.

Whisper, on the other hand, wades right in like she's walked the roads every day of her life. She's the one to explain away the lightness of their load with a raider attack on the northern road, only barely escaped with their brahmin and caps enough to start over at the next farm. She's the one to earn the respect of the other guards their first night, when someone's poor shot sends the radstag earmarked for the supper pot fleeing into the brush until she puts it down with a single bullet through the rightmost head. She even butchers the beast, tossing him the meat for preparation while he watches out of the corner of his eye, her bloody hands fast and skilled with the skinning knife. She's the one who insinuates herself into the circle of other guards around the fire that night: a group of indiscriminately scarred and dusty men and women, with identical short hair and rough voices and hard eyes. Whisper slides right in with a silent nod to the apparent leader of the group, pulls out her blade and a whetstone and becomes one of them, undetectable in the flickering light from the fire.

It's a masterpiece performance, even by Deacon's admittedly exacting standards. He thought she was good before, playing a gangster's girlfriend or a travelling merchant or a drifter looking to spend some caps: a woman of wit and charm, sharp-edged sarcasm or friendly seduction, easy to talk to and quick to make new friends. He'd picked those roles carefully, because he wanted to make sure she didn't have to stretch too far when she was starting out, even considering her startling aptitude for the job. But watching her now, he's starting to get the feeling that he's been taking the wrong tack. Either she's an even better actress than he was giving her credit before, or this is not her first time as a caravan guard.

"Both, obviously," she tells him, later that night when they're getting ready for bed. They're in a tiny tent, just barely big enough for the two of them plus their packs, a little ways away from the rest of the camp. For privacy, Whisper told the others with a particularly lewd wink, earning herself a burst of raucous laughter from the rest of the half-drunk guards. Her swagger over to the tent had been a little loose-legged herself, but once the flap was closed behind her she returned to her usual graceful self. Sleight of hand was definitely not on the list of things he had to teach her. "I had another life before the Railroad, you know. Actually, I've had a couple."

"Haven’t we all," he says, sprawled out on his elbows on their bedroll. He still has his undershirt and long johns on, and she keeps hers on as well when she shucks out of her armor and travelling clothes. It's in deference to the cold more than anything, both of them being somewhat lacking in the modesty department. "You've done some hunting, too."

"My Daddy started taking me when I was just a little bit of a thing,” she says, distractedly, then laughs at him silently when he raises an eyebrow. “Did you think I sprang fully formed into being, a knife in one hand and a lockpick in the other?”

“There’s no need to be like that, you know,” he says with a sniff. It’s the most she’s ever said about her life before the Railroad. Well, the most she’s ever said that sounded _real._ Deacon’s willing to believe a lot of things about a woman he knows for a fact led a squad of Minutemen to kill a mirelurk queen the size of a radio tower, but _A clone of Stalin raised on the moon by the grandson of Mr. Pebbles_ isn’t on that list. The hunting thing, though- it was so offhand, so clearly right off the tongue, that it’s hard to believe it was fabricated. Admittedly, it’s the way Deacon lies when he’s selling his best stories, but Whisper isn’t quite in his grade when it comes to dishonesty.

“Oh yeah?”

“I was merely expressing interesting in my- hey!” He flinches as she drills a fingertip into his ribcage. "Rude."

"Your face is rude," she says, nonsensically, and shoves at his shoulder. "Roll over."

He lets her shove rock him sideways a little, and then resettles back into the exact same position. She's strong, but she's not _that_ strong. "Say 'please.'"

"Nope," she says, and moves faster than he can react, snakes a hand around him to hook his outside elbow and gives it a quick, hard yank. He collapses down onto the bedroll onto his side with an undignified yelp, and then twists around to glare at her over his shoulder.

" _What the hell-_ "

"Quiet," she tells him brusquely, her cover's rough command, and he obeys immediately, his eyes widening. She gives him a slow smile as a reward, and nudges at him till he rolls over properly, giving her his back. A moment later, he feels her slight weight settle against him from behind, her wiry arm wrapped tight around his ribs, and then her little sigh of satisfaction on the nape of his neck as she goes limp against him, her body cradling his in a relaxed, heated curve. "Good boy."

He can no more stop the shiver that runs down the length of him than he could turn back the tides. There's no way she can't feel it, pressed as close as a shadow, but she just makes a pleased noise and noses at the top of his spine. "Go to sleep."

He can't quite let go of the tension that thrums down through his bones. "Boss?" he says, a little awkwardly. Billy's voice, Billy's words, Deacon's question. Caught between himself and his cover.

"I'm up for second watch," she tells him, her voice a low mumble against the back of his neck. "Gonna come wake me up. Gotta look good."

She’s still in character, even while giving him information, but he can’t quite hold it. "And that means I need to be little spoon because…?" he whispers back.

"Because you're my boy," she says, and then tucks her face between his shoulderblades and, to all appearances, seems to go to sleep.

Deacon lies there for a long, frozen moment, his mind going a hundred miles an hour. He'd noticed on previous trips that the guards and the drovers seemed to be paired off often, but it hadn't occurred to him that it would be an institutionalized, cultural thing. _Huh._ He's going to have to pay better attention tomorrow.

_And what,_ he asks himself, _does it mean that Whisper called dibs on guard?_ She clearly knew what it meant- and just as clearly knew that he didn't, if her amused response was, in retrospect, anything to go by. _You could have warned a fellow, you know._

But instead of irritation, he finds that he's entirely delighted at her bit of trickery. It's nothing less than he's been oh-so-irresponsibly doing to her, after all, op after op, tossing her a line and waiting to see if she could pick it up. So far, she's always picked it up. He can't say that turnabout is anything less than fair play.

And it's not like he _minds_ it, her slight weight against him, her arm around him and her calf slyly entwined with his, as if to better pin him into place. She's incredibly warm, and he already trusts her- as much as he trusts anybody, and more than most. They've shared bedrolls and couches and mattress on a dozen or more missions over the past couple months, and Deacon's never had any problem falling asleep with her next to him. This is just… more of the same.

_I’m her boy,_ he thinks, and lets it settle deep into his bones, into the quiet reaches of himself where his cover needs to live. Until they get to Bunker Hill, he’s Billy Sharpton, drover for a Commonwealth caravan, and he belongs to his partner, body and soul.

After that, it’s easy.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It’s been awhile since he’s had to hold a cover for longer than a few hours at a time, but it turns out he hasn’t forgotten how it goes. Once he managed to find the _click_ moment, the one that lets him get at the core of who he’s supposed to be, it’s simple enough to roll with it, to keep his head down and tend the brahmin and give a panicked glance to Whisper out of the corner of his eyes every time someone tries to talk to him. She always comes to rescue him, like a good partner; comes over and slings an arm around his waist, or grabs the back of his neck or his shoulder or his wrist, just a quick touch to remind him that she’s there and she’s looking out. Every time, he lets a shy smile bloom on his face back at her, and she always has a ghost of a smile in return.

Drovers and guards, like pretty much all people everywhere, don’t all fall into neat little categories, even in the microcosm of the single caravan they’re riding with. There’s a few tourists in the group that are obviously pretty new the group, but among the lifers, the guards tend to be gruff and rude as a species, and the drovers quieter and kinder- but those are generalizations you could make about anybody, looking at it from enough distance. One of the drovers, Lily-Marie, has a tongue like a combat knife and isn’t afraid to use it, and her boy strides along beside her with a rifle the size of Texas and the happiest smile on his face, content to follow in the wake of her discontent. Abraham is the head guard, a bigger and more scarred-up bastard Deacon’s rarely met, and his girl is one of the two scouts, sleek and quiet and vibrating with the contained inner rage of someone who’s had life kick ‘em in the teeth a few too many times, who only goes calm when he’s got a hand on her. There’s a quartet that look like they make up the core of this caravan and all share one big tent: two men and one woman who swap duties on the regular and a guard with no pronouns, and even after a full week Deacon still never manages to make heads or tails of who’s who in that tangle. He suspects that’s how they like it.

In all of that, Billy and his partner don’t stand out so much. He’s quieter than most and she’s got an edge of coiled, possessive danger to her, but that doesn’t set them apart, particularly. After the first day where the others take their measure, they more or less leave them be. If he was travelling for fun Deacon would probably play it a little different, maybe try and make a few more friends along the way, but as it is? It’s perfect.

It only takes them a day to figure out which one of them is best suited to approaching their target. Lucas Miller has an awkward way about him and tends to eye the brasher guards with a nervous edge, like he’s never entirely sure of his welcome and isn’t too comfortable with what they might do if they change their mind. Shy, quiet Billy Sharpton is a balm for his nerves, and by the third day they’re sitting side-by-side at suppertime, telling stories about life on the road in low voices. By the time they roll into Bunker Hill a couple days after that, Deacon knows the man’s favorite food, where he grew up, the name of his childhood pet, and that he went through a lean time a while back but things have been looking up lately- but he doesn’t yet know if he’s on Institute payroll. It’s not the kind of thing a man wants to advertise.

“Phase two?” Whisper asks him, after supper on their final night on the road. Aside from that first night, they’ve stayed in character even while alone, on the off chance that someone might be wandering by for a piss and catch them sounding like themselves, but tonight they’re one of the last ones left at the fire. She’s sitting on an upended cook pot with him on the ground between her thighs, leaning back with his head tucked under her chin and her arms draped around his shoulders, her dangling fingers brushing affectionately against his chest every minute or so. They paint a blatantly possessive picture, probably because of the admiring look one of the tourists was sending him over supper. Not all of the caravanners are attached, and he knows that at least some of them would be interested in joining one or both of them on their last night with the group. Whisper’s grip on him tonight was designed to head that off at the pass. The pleasure Deacon takes in it is incidental, and entirely beside the point.

“Phase two,” he confirms, his voice so low she probably feels it as much as hears it, given how tight she’s wrapped around his back. Whisper gives a pleased rumble and rubs her cheek against top of his head, careful not to push his wig astray.

“I’ll keep comms in. Signal when you need me to pull you out.”

“Always, boss,” he says, in Billy’s quiet, easy mumble, and she laughs softly and tugs on his hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she says, just loud enough to carry. “Bed. Big day tomorrow.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bunker Hill is the same as it always is: chaotic, loud, and with a fine edge of tension that comes when people know they’re living on borrowed time. He knows Whisper took care of the worst of the raider gangs that were pushing their luck on Kessler’s dime, some months before she joined them, but one success does not a long-term plan make. If they can build up their security a bit more they might have a fighting chance, but so far Kessler’s been relying on raider infighting, caravan guards, and the occasional freelancer to keep things moving. It’s not a system that’s built to last.

But that’s not Deacon’s problem- or it isn’t today, at least. If the situation destabilizes too far he’s going to have to find a new alpha site, but for now the chaos suits their purposes just fine. No one ever seems to notice a few strays wandering in with the caravans, or notice that they don’t seem to leave again with the rest. After the Switchboard went down everyone was terrified that the Institute had clocked their main extraction points too, but the synth patrols never showed up on the routes and Whisper came along to take care of the raiders. Still, it’s a precarious position. They had to consolidate down to just Stockton, and Deacon wants to diversify their alpha sites again but they haven’t found anything else safe enough to use just yet. He’s working on it, but in the meantime, a potential threat like Miller needs to be headed off at the pass. With extreme prejudice, if necessary.

He and Whisper split up for the majority of the day, much to Billy's quiet but insistent displeasure at being left to his own devices. Deacon, however, has his partner on the other end of the line like a safety net- as promised, they both leave their comms open the entire day, which mostly means that they’re subjected to a double-dose of trading, haggling, and a not-insignificant amount of arguing, bearable only because of the jokes they trade back and forth when it’s quiet enough no one can hear them. Once upon a time tracking two entirely separate conversations would have ruined his concentration and fucked the op sideways and backwards, but it’s been years since it was a problem for him- now, it’s just fucking annoying. Whisper doesn’t seem to have any problems either, which is nice, though that could just be natural aptitude. She’s got some pretty gnarly multitasking skills, fuck if he knows where she picked those up because he definitely can’t take the credit there.

The day itself is just prelude, though, and eventually the sun starts to set, the traders pack up their goods and the shopkeepers roll up their stalls and everyone mutually adjourns to the bars in the middle of the town square. Deacon spots Old Man Stockton on the streets heading back to his house, followed by a long-suffering porter that Deacon is about ninety percent certain is one of theirs, and he’s equally certain that Stockton clocked him as well, but the man’s too experienced to show it. He’s one of the few tourists that was never phased by any of Deacon’s face-swaps, and while the only time Deacon’s met him since the last one was at Whisper’s elbow, he’s pretty sure Stockton figured it was him. The voice gives him away, when someone knows him well enough; his throat never entirely recovered after the time with the thing. He might have to see what he can do to work on that next time.

Lucas hasn't yet made his way to the bars when Deacon finds his way there, probably because Whisper picked a fight with one of his guards and he needed to stay behind to deal with it. Deacon buys a bottle of good bourbon and skulks back to one of the tables tucked away in a corner, radiating awkwardness so badly that even the friendliest of drunks doesn't try to join him.

"I'm in place," he says into his comm.

"Okay, look, maybe we can come to an agreement," Whisper says, a beat later. "Lend me your man to help me clean up the mess, and we're good."

"Uh," he hears Lucas say faintly. "Just like that?"

"Maybe buy me a drink later," she says, and he can hear the rough charm in her voice, the thing that keeps Billy turning to her like a plant follows the sun. "G'wan. Shouldn't have to waste a good night just because you hired someone who doesn't know how to watch his fucking feet."

Deacon heard her trip him. She counted down to it. And he still almost believes her.

"Oh, sure, uh, okay," Lucas stutters. Deacon can almost picture the heavy stare she's giving him, perplexed but uncaring of his reaction, and it makes him want to laugh.

"Maybe keep an eye on my boy while you're at it, yeah?"

"Yeah, I can do that," Lucas says, in tones of obvious relief, and a minute later he hears Whisper say, "You're up, partner."

"Roger, Roger," he says, with a grin that doesn't look very much like Billy at all, and sets the stage.

Lucas comes in a few minutes later, and Deacon gives him a tiny wave, immediately shoving his hands back down into his lap when Lucas notices and comes over to join him. "Hey, man," Lucas says, jerking his chin at the seat next to him. "You mind if I…?"

"No, uh, all yours," Deacon says, and pushes the bottle of bourbon a little towards him when he sits down. "You want some?"

"Yeah, sure, man. Long day."

"No argument from me," says Billy, who had to talk to people all day and is still vaguely resentful about it. "You see the boss, by any chance?"

Lucas sighs into his glass. "Yeah. Apparently one of my guards tripped over your stuff and broke open one of the crates."

"Aw, shit, man," Deacon says, with the heartfelt sincerity of someone who just finished packing those up an hour ago. "Is anything-"

"Nothing damaged, I don't think," Lucas hastened to assure him. "Just made a mess. She about tore a strip off my hide."

Deacon ducks his head and lets a smile tug up the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, she, uh, she does that."

"Yeah, and she _likes_ you," Lucas says, still clearly a little disgruntled over it. Apparently Whisper's charm works a little better when she's still there in person. Ah, well. "How did you start working for her, anyway?"

Deacon's had a week to figure out some of the rules of caravan travel, and what Lucas just asked him was unforgivably rude. It's true that sometimes plenty of caravanners are there on hire- Lucas's own guards are one example- but the majority of them are, in one way or another, lifers. When someone like Billy calls his partner _the boss,_ it's an endearment, not a descriptor of a financial relationship. Deacon doesn't exactly expect everyone to share his talents for observation, but honestly.

But Billy isn't the type to hold grudges, and Deacon isn't about pissing off the mark when they're finally getting somewhere, so he just tips a shoulder into a shrug and takes a sip of his bourbon to hide his expression. _He hasn't been in this business long,_ Deacon imagines Billy telling himself. _He'll figure it out._ "A couple years back," he says. "Walked the same routes a time or two. Guess she took a shine to me."

"Oh," Lucas says, and the drop in his voice says he finally figured it out. "Oh! Uh, good for you."

"How is he so fucking slow," Whisper says with wonder in his ear, and Deacon hides his smile behind another sip from his glass.

"Yeah, I think so. But what about you, man? How'd you get into this?"

"Oh, the usual way," Lucas says with a shrug. "Family business, you know-"

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It takes two hours and enough bourbon that Lucas doesn't notice Deacon's glass failing to refill, but he gets what he needs. He heads back to the bathroom to take a piss and, upon finding the hall empty when he's done, leans back against the wall and says, "You got all that?"

"Poor bastard doesn't know who's paying him, and he's too grateful to ask too many questions about why," Whisper says immediately. He can tell by the background noise that she's not far away, probably just off the main square. "Are we going to need to follow him tomorrow? 'Cause if we have to ride out after all, I've gotta go do some fast talking with Abraham."

"Why would we need to-" he says, and then it hits him. "Ohhhh, no. Oh man, did we do counterintelligence yet? I can't remember if we covered this."

He can hear the smile in her voice. "Think you must have forgotten that one."

"Okay, well, lesson number-" He gropes for a number. After a while, it all starts to run together. "Sixteen?"

"I think seventeen."

"Lesson number seventeen, never take out a source that you know belongs to the other guy. It's _much_ more useful to know who they are so you can feed them wrong intel."

"Makes sense," she says, sounding amused. "Just as well. I wasn't looking forward to wasting that poor schmuck."

But she'd've done it, Deacon knows. So would he. Hell, he's done it before. Always feels like shit afterwards, but that's how he knows he's still fucking human. After the- When the Railroad recruited him, it took a while before he felt like a person again. He'll take a hundred sleepless nights over that.

He clears his throat. "So, yeah. We're good. Just need an extraction, if you'd oblige?"

"Gotcha covered, partner," she says. "Head on back. I'll be there in five."

Sure enough, it's almost five minutes on the dot when he spots her short, wiry figure arrowing through the crowd. She's a lot smaller than most of the drunks, but she got sobriety and determination on her side, and a steely gaze that convinces most of them that they'd really rather get out of her way. Deacon watches her with a little inward sigh of satisfaction. She lifted that stride off Abraham sometime during the week. She's even got his little hitch on the left ankle, where he keeps a heavy skinning knife she doesn't carry. Beautiful.

She fetches up against his side a few moments later, and Billy looks up at her, a flower turning to his own personal sun. "Heya, boss."

"Hey babe," she says, and leans her hip against his shoulder. He automatically shifts to better take her weight, wraps an arm around her to keep her steady, and ends up with his palm spanning the warm, muscled expanse of her thigh, his thumb rubbing against the outer seam of her jeans. She drops a hand down to the back of his neck, casually possessive. "You havin' fun?"

He smiles up at her shyly. "More now that you're here, boss."

“You get into any trouble without me?”

He ducks his head. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Good lad,” she says, and rubs her thumb against the back of his neck. She looks over to Lucas, who’s sitting next to them, looking about as awkward as an incredibly intoxicated man can look. “Stuff’s all packed up again. Your man does good work.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I pay him the big bucks.” His gaze darts between the two of them like it’s not entirely sure where it wants to land, and Deacon shifts to put his shoulder more firmly under Whisper’s weight, nudging her to shift down and brace her elbow on the booth back behind him, till her lean is more of a drape. _It doesn’t count as overselling it when someone’s this drunk._ “Sorry again about before.”

“No worries,” Whisper says, with the expansive forgiveness of a woman who set the whole thing up in the first place. “You were good for it. Thanks for looking after my boy.”

Billy can’t help but be pleased at that, and leans back a little into her grip on his neck. She gives him an approving squeeze, and he tucks his thumb into the pocket of her jeans.

“Uh, no problem,” Lucas says. He’s starting to eye the exits a little, Deacon notes with amusement. “But, uh, I think I’d probably better head to bed. Early morning tomorrow.”

“You give my regards to Abraham,” Whisper says easily. “We had a good ride with you folk. He runs a tight ship.”

Lucas is too drunk to hide his surprise as well as he probably thinks he is. “You’re not riding out with us?”

“Nah, this is our stop,” Whisper says. “We sold enough to get a good head-start on the season, so we’re going to hang out here and restock a bit, maybe catch another caravan in a week or two and head north. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah, guess I do,” Lucas says. “Well, uh, it was good to meet you-” Said more towards Deacon than Whisper, though he probably thought he was being subtle about it. “And, uh, you ever need anything down the line, you know how to look me up.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, and puts out his hand. Lucas gives it a hearty (and clammy) shake, then finishes the last of his bourbon and makes his escape. Whisper leans a little more heavily against him in the wake of his absence, and her hand slides down to his shoulder to brace herself as she leans down to murmur in his ear.

"Thought he'd never leave. You about ready to call it a night?"

_Is she talking to me or Billy?_ Deacon wonders, almost absently, and then the implications of that catch up to him and he hears his throat click as he swallows. He hasn't thought about that night in Goodneighbor much since it happened, yeah, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten it. Or that he's under any illusion that she's forgotten it, either.

"Sure thing, boss," he says, quietly, and flushes a little under the slow, insinuating slash of a smile that curls the corner of her mouth. "After you."

She catches his wrist in his hand and leads him out of the square, the rest of the bourbon carelessly abandoned to whichever drunk gets desperate enough to go scavenging. Her long fingers just barely circle closed around the jut of bone, and he follows quiet in her wake, no better shackled than if she'd cuffed him with steel. He still can't quite read her, and it leaves him wobbling between himself and his cover, trying to figure out which way he's supposed to jump. Come up or stay down? Make a joke or stay quiet? Grab some blankets, or go to his knees?

She stops him right outside the door to their little bunk in the temporary quarters, and even though she's looking up at him, he still feels like she's about ten feet tall. "You know the rules," she says, and her voice is low and steady and whiskey-rough. "All you gotta do is say stop and we stop."

She's making it easy on him, the way he almost never does for her. It's not like the heated rush from before, her tongue in his mouth and the breathless tease of her cover driving him on. The choice is all laid out in front of him, nice and neat, and the out is right there, just as big and obvious as the door they're leaning against.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you._

He smiles back, slow and sweet, and leans down to press his forehead to hers. "Sure thing, boss," he says low, and she exhales a rough breath and fumbles open the door and pushes him through.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, Deacon wakes alone. He's not sure whether to be relieved or worried.

Worried ultimately wins out, if only because they're technically still on assignment. The plan was always to peel off from the caravan in Bunker Hill, and judging by the angle of the sun in the sky they've officially been left behind, but it's not like Whisper to go off on her own when they're working. Not that she can't take care of herself, no problem, just- She's his partner, damn it. He's allowed to worry if he wants.

Bunker Hill looks almost empty in comparison to the chaos of the day before, but that makes it easier to pick his way through the detritus left from the market day, flag down a tired-looking Deb at her usual counter. "Hey, love," she says when she spots him, a little smile tipping up the corners of her mouth. "Lookin' for something?"

"Lookin' for the boss," he says, with Billy’s low mumble. "You seen her?"

"Got an early start, that one did," Deb says, rolling her eyes. "Nice to be young enough not to feel it the next morning, huh?"

Deacon hasn't been young enough to sleep off a hangover in longer than he'll admit on pain of pain, but Billy just nods shyly. "She around?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking," Deb says. "I saw her coming through after breakfast, and it looked like she was going up the spire."

Deacon tilts his head back and looks up at the monument. _Of course she did,_ he thinks. Whisper loves high places almost as much as Deacon hates them. "Thanks, miss," he says, and earns a friendly, easy smile in return.

"No problem, sweetheart. Let me know if you need anything else."

At least the staircase is on the inside; that's a lot better than the alternative. It takes him a few minutes to make the climb up to the top ( _gettin' out of shape, old man)_ but when he finally rounds the last landing there's Whisper, curled up in the only chair and staring out the window. She's still wearing her guard outfit, but she's scrubbed away all of the road dirt and brushed the stuff out of her hair, so it once more falls in loose curls around her ears. The pose is all Whisper as well, her body a loose, balanced curve on the chair, rather than her cover's arrogant sprawl. Her boots are sitting on the floor next to her, and her bare feet are tucked up underneath her thighs. Deacon stands there and stares at them for longer than he likes to admit, helplessly remembering the night before, on his belly on the mattress with his head between those thighs, her small, calloused hands roughly gripping the back of his neck to keep him in place-

He clears his throat. "Heya, partner," he says. His voice sounds a little rough this morning, is that his imagination? "What's with you and wanting to be up above everyone else, huh?"

She turns to give him a speaking look, and he just shrugs, abashed. _Poor choice of phrasing, considering…_ "Sniper's habit," she says, after a moment, apparently deciding to let him off the hook. "Plus, I like the view. Skyline's not too different, when you think about it."

_Different from what,_ he wonders. He know she hasn't lived in the Commonwealth her entire life- she's just a little too offbeat to have grown up here, and no one with her capabilities could have come up entirely without notice- but rumors are torn between her coming out of a vault somewhere or migrating from another city. Personally his wager is on her being a vaultie (literally his wager, he and Drums have ten caps on the line) but she could be talking about the Capital skyline. Deacon's seen it a time or two himself, and it's impressive, if impressively irradiated.

"I think you just like to make yourself feel superior to everyone else."

Her slow grin lets him know that he's made a mistake even before she opens her mouth. "Easy to feel that way when you _are_ superior to everyone else."

"...walked right into that one, didn't I."

"Little bit."

He sighs and takes the last step up onto the top floor, leaning up against the wall next to the window. Which he is very carefully not looking through, because he doesn't want to risk accidentally looking down and having a very embarrassing reaction. So far, he's managed to avoid mentioning his- thing, about heights. But it's probably just a matter of time.

The stone wall is cold against his back through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Deacon thinks about the night before, her clever fingers undoing the buttons and easing it off his shoulders, her broad flat palms smoothing down his back, impossibly warm in the chilled air of the poorly-heated bunkhouse. He wasn't much thinking about it last night, but with the distance of morning, he can't help but wonder if she noticed his scars. The last few times he did his face the doc did what he could to get them smoothed over, to the point that you can't see them unless he's directly under a strong light, but he knows you can feel them, still. Not everything can be excised under the surgeon's knife.

Then again, if she did notice, it's not like she'd know how he got them, or what they meant. And he knows she'd never ask him, any more than she ever asks him anything personal, or invites questions of her own. Hell, maybe she knew about them already. He never got his kit off the last time they fucked, but they've never been too body-shy around each other, either, and they've both had to pull off a quick patch job in the field a time or two.

Or, and considering the source this one has his vote: maybe she honestly doesn't care. Everyone's got their scars, after all; she's certainly no exception. When it comes down to it, even the marks your life leaves on your body don't really say much about you at all.

_Man, what a downer,_ he thinks, vaguely disgusted with himself. Even his inner monologue is getting depressing, and that definitely won't do. He eyes Whisper, who's staring out past his shoulder at the view, her expression distant, obviously lost in thought. Hmmm. One of the advantages of a partner? He never has to work too hard to find something to distract him from his thoughts. It's been a couple weeks since he last spun her a story, hasn't it? The synth recall code scam didn't work too well, but he might have better luck now that she's distracted.

"Hey listen," he says, shifting into an easy, hipshot lean. Comfortable, confiding. "You've been with us for, what, two months now?"

She blinks back to the conversation and gives him a curious look. "Thereabouts. Why?"

_Whatever you do,_ he cautions himself, _don't oversell it._ "It's time you learned the Big Secret."

It's a suitably dramatic opening, but Whisper's not the sort of woman to be taken in so easily. Instead she leans back in her chair, folds her hands over her belly, and cocks a sardonic eyebrow. "Your addiction to old Grognak comics is not a secret, pal."

Cute. "I'm actually more of an _Unstoppables_ man myself, but not what I was talking about." And then he pauses, expectantly.

She rolls her eyes but rises to the bait obediently. "Alright, I'll bite. What's the Big Secret?"

"Everyone thinks that Desdemona is the big boss. She calls the ops, gives the ra-ra speeches. But it's just an act."

"Oh yeah?" Easy smile, humoring him. "I suppose you're going to tell me it's really you."

Damn. Maybe not _so_ distracted. Still, he's got a window. He can tell. "Always knew you were a smart one, partner. She does what I tell her to because the Railroad's my show. It's been that way since I founded it."

One of the _other_ tricks to lying, one that most people overlook, is the golden rule of _go big or go home._ Unlike faking sincerity, it has to be used judiciously, because there's a certain tipping point where even the best liar can't spin shit into gold. But there's a sweet spot where things are just implausible enough that it seems like too bold of a thing to lie about, without being literally unbelievable. If you can get people to wonder, then you're more than halfway there already. The right details can seal the deal. And the best bit is that once you've gotten people to buy into something a little far-fetched, they'll fight tooth and nail to keep from being convinced otherwise, because that would make them nothing better than a sucker. The human brain is a wonderfully self-defeating mechanism, sometimes.

Whisper's poker face is good, almost on his level. He can't tell yet if he's gotten her to wonder.

"You founded it, huh?" she says. There's a telltale little twitch in the corner of her mouth- _alright,_ it seems to say, _I'll play._ It's his favorite thing. "What, sixty years ago?"

"Goin' on seventy now," Deacon says. Sometimes, you just gotta commit to the thing. "I think. After a while you lose count. Back at the beginning, it was just me and Johnny D and Watts- Watts, he was the synth, the first one we got out. Had this little hole in the ground, near University Point, barely big enough for a few bunks and some changes of clothes, but we did the work. After a while, word started getting around, we got a few new people in, the rest came naturally."

He waits a moment, but, "Huh," is all she says. She tips her head to the side and studies him. "You're lookin' pretty good, for a man closing in on the century mark."

"Well, yeah," he says. Inwardly, he's preening a little. _Getting warmer…_ "That's the point. I tell everyone I get the occasional face change to stay anonymous. Truth is, it takes a lot of work to keep this mug handsome."

Not _entirely_ false, mind you. If there's one thing he's learned, it's that a sort of timeless, late-twenties look is the best for a good spy, because you can age up or down from there as needed. If his skin hadn't been pretty much wholesale replaced by this point he'd probably have to be facing his fair share of wrinkles in the mirror every morning, but who wants to deal with that?

"And so modest," she says. "Look at you, out in the field, taking none of the credit."

"Credit's boring," he says, which is actually also true. "And nobody gets into spying for the accolades. It's about what's _effective._ "

"Uh-huh," she says, dryly. "Are you really expecting me to fall for this? Mr. You-Can't-Trust-Everyone?"

Yeah, not one of his better scams, in retrospect. At least not on her. He's gotten a lot of recruits with that one before. Most of them, admittedly, hadn't worked with him too closely when he tried it. He had a whole spiel lined up about about trust and infiltration and going with your gut, but she busted him the second he handed her the “recall code.” Ah, well, can’t win ‘em all.

"Entirely fair," he acknowledges. "But seriously. Haven't you noticed how when I say the word, Desdemona does a 180? 'Hey, there's an intruder.' 'No, I vouch for her.' 'Then welcome.'" He smirks, and he knows he's got her hooked on the edge it, the supreme confidence of it. He _knows._ "Every time. It works out best that way, gives me room to maneuver."

Whisper doesn't say anything, but he can see it on her face- just a flicker of her eyes, the veriest twitch of her mouth, but it's there. Doubt. Just a smidgen, but it's enough. Even if he doesn't pull it off, he can at least congratulate himself for getting it that far.

"So that makes you, what, ninety? A hundred? You're pretty spry, considering your age."

"The marvels of modern technology." This is a bit of an easier sell for her than most; she was the one who killed Kellogg, after all, and that old bastard had to be at least fifty percent spare parts by the time he finally went down. "We've learned a lot from Institute tech, over the years. No one's irreplaceable, but I know enough to be worth keeping around."

"Huh," she says. “A hundred years. That’s, wow. That’s a lot.” He narrows his eyes- he knows a lead up to a punchline when he hears one- and she looks away out the window, cuts her gaze slyly back to his face. It's her _I've got a secret,_ look, and he instinctively leans forward, because this is gonna be good. "I can top that."

Not the way he expected her to go with it, but he's always game to change the rules a little where Whisper’s concerned. “Let’s hear it, hotshot.”

“Try two hundred and forty-three.”

He leans back against the wall with a low whistle. Man, and he thought _he_ went big with his lie. “Pre-War, huh? You’re lookin’ pretty smooth for a ghoul.”

“Nah, cryogenically frozen,” she says, with a lazy smile. “They did all sorts of experiments back in the day. I was selected for my service to the country, how’s that for irony?”

“Irony?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Finally got done with the military, and then in thanks they freeze my ass so I can run around killing people in the future, instead.”

Damn. She’s clearly a better liar than he was giving her credit for, because fuck if she doesn’t sound sincere. There’s an artful edge of bitterness in her voice, and if he didn’t know better he’d think she really did get betrayed like that, promised one thing and delivered another. Then again, the best lies are based on at least a kernel of truth, because you can sell the emotion behind them that much better. She probably was fucked over by someone she trusted. Maybe several someones. She’s got that distant sort of wariness, the unwillingness to buy entirely into a cause, that comes from someone who got sold a load of bullshit at some point in their past and came out the worse on the other side. He recognizes that well enough from the rare times he bothers to look in the mirror.

“Well, you definitely took the long way to find us, I’ll give you that,” he says. He wonders how long he’s going to be able to keep a straight face. “But I’m glad you made it. There’s worse places to be, you know. We do good work here in the Railroad, maybe better than you know.”

She rises to the bait with the amused smile that says she’s humoring him. “Oh yeah?”

“I mean, people think we’re just about saving synths, but it’s bigger than that, you know? There’s more going on. We’re building a better, brighter Commonwealth. We-” Damn it, damn it he’s not going to be able to keep it going. “We’re one of the best, noblest organizations out there! We-”

“-can’t hear ourselves over the sound of our own bullshit?” Whisper finishes for him, one eyebrow raised.

Aw, fuck it. “Oversold it a bit there at the end, huh?”

“Just a scoche.” She holds up her fingers, only an inch apart. “You started to sound like one of those Children of the Atom preachers there.”

“I was doing fine until you got me with that cryo bullshit,” he complains. “That’s dirty fucking pool, partner.”

An ironic smile curves her lips. “I think you’re just trying to excuse your failure, partner. It’s all right, we can’t all be winners.”

“That’s just hurtful.” He sighs and straightens up from the wall. “Let it be lesson number… whatever we’re on. Everyone’s going to want to spoon-feed you some bullshit. Don’t fall for it. Here endeth the lesson.”

She bends over to pick up her boots, but he can still hear her mutter, “Not one I needed teaching, trust me.”

It’s just a bit too personal for the game, and he clears his throat, pretends he didn’t hear. “I had you going for a minute there, though, didn’t I?”

She looks up from her laces to give him a challenging smirk. “That’s for me to know, and you to wonder.”

“...I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”

“Yeah, but I like mine better.” She finishes knotting off the laces and stands up, stamping once or twice to settle her boots. “C’mon, partner, let’s get you down on solid ground again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, and she laughs.

“Sure you don’t, because you definitely never turn green when you get more than two stories up.” She pats him on the shoulder, and he thinks about the way she held him down the night before, her small hands pressing him flat back against the mattress as she rode him. “It’s alright, buddy. We can’t all be perfect. Let’s get some grub and get this show on the road.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They eat a leisurely breakfast in the pub, savoring the companionable silence their covers favor. Deacon loves talking to Whisper, so far doesn’t seem to be getting tired of it, but he likes this, too- the quiet places, where he doesn’t have to act and isn’t expected to be anything in particular. In a way, the last week’s been the most restful he’s had in years.

Eventually they finish up and Whisper flips a few caps to the bartender, and they head out into the bright, chill morning air. Whisper blinks against the brightness after the dim lighting of the pub, but takes a deep breath through her nose and turns her face up to the sunlight. “Spring’s coming.”

It’s still cold enough that Deacon can see his breath on the air, even at this late hour of the morning. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you can practically smell it.”

Deacon obediently takes a sniff of his own, but all he smells is brahmin dung and whiskey fumes from the nearby bar. “We’re barely out of February, hotshot. I think spring’s got a bit of road left to walk before we catch sight of her.”

She shakes her head. “It’s going to come early this year,” she says definitely. “You’ll see.”

“Oh, you’re a forecaster now, is that it?” They both have to make a fast dodge to the right when a runner comes through at full speed, and she stumbles slightly against him, her hip bumping into his. When they straighten up she doesn’t move away, and he only hesitates for a moment before he slings his arm around her shoulders. She ducks her chin to hide her smile (not fast enough) and leans into him, wrapping her free arm around his waist. It’s nothing they haven’t done a dozen, a hundred times before, but he can’t shake the weird awareness of her body, the heat of her in the chill morning air and the knowledge that if he were to duck his head and press his nose against the bare line of her neck above her collar he’d smell the sweat from the night before.

“Better than a comedian, that’s for sure.”

“I think I’m- no, I’m definitely hurt by that. Wounded, even. You’ve crippled me-” He staggers into a limp and she laughs and shoves at his chest, though not hard enough to push him away. “Too much?”

“Just a bit.”

They walk in companionable silence back to the bunkhouse, and once inside he sets to packing up their gear while she goes to lean by the window and keep watch. He glances over at her occasionally, but she always has the same distant, affable expression on her face, and he doesn’t know what she’s thinking at all. They’re right there in the same room, but mentally she might as well be a million miles away.

“Hey,” he says, before he thinks better of it. “You doing okay?”

She blinks and seems to come back to herself, tucking her hands in her pockets and raising an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, sure,” she says, a little suspiciously. “Why?”

_A lesser woman would have looked at the bed right then_ , he thinks, torn between admiration and resentment. It’s only his nerves of steel that allow him to keep his eyes on the packs. “Dez said something, before this op. She’s worried about how much you’ve been taking on. I know I’ve got you doing a lot, more than we should probably be putting on a rookie. If you need to step it back-”

“Now hang on a minute,” she says, cutting him off. He glances up to see her straightened up from her easy lean, her arms crossed combatively over her chest. “Have I given you any reason to think I can’t hack it?”

Aw hell. “ _Not_ the point, partner. It’s not about what you can do. More about whether or not we should be asking.”

She huffs a short breath through her nose. “As long as that’s clear,” she says, but she seems a little unsettled. “Seriously though, I’m fine. You guys aren’t throwing anything at me I can’t handle.”

He can’t help the hopeful look he gives her in return. “Is that so?”

She grins back at him. “I’ve got no complaints so far.”

_Suck it, Desdemona._ “I distinctly remember something about cold feet the other day...”

She waves that away. “Nothing _real,_ ” she says, rolling her eyes. “I know we don’t do the honesty thing much, but I’m right where I want to be, okay? I’d tell you if I weren’t. Scout’s honor.”

The warm little glow that rolls through him is _entirely_ unwelcome but equally predictable. _Gettin’ soft in your old age, boyo._ “What’s a scout?”

“Someone with honor, obviously. Keep up, Deacon.”

“Well, your wit’s pretty dazzling, it can sometimes be a challenge.” He finishes with the packs and stands up, throwing his over his shoulder and handing hers off. “Hey,” he says, cursing himself even as he says it. _So much for nerves of steel._ “About last night-”

Both eyebrows creep up this time. “Yeah?”

He looks searchingly into her dark eyes, as friendly and honest and open as they are to every mark who thinks they understand what she's thinking. “Are we good?” he says, finally. “With- everything.”

She reaches up and cups his cheek in one warm, calloused palm. He leans into it unthinkingly, his eyes slipping closed, and when he blinks them open again it’s to see her smiling up at him, the same steady smile she has for him in the field. “We’re always good, partner,” she says, and then her hand drops away, and the moment’s broken. “C’mon, let’s get this show on the road.”

He follows her out the door and into the bright February sunlight, and takes a deep breath, tasting rain and something fresh underneath the bitter chill on the wind. “You know, I think you’re right.” he says, and earns a fast sideways glance.

“Insert obligatory comment about how I’m always right,” she says, and then clears her throat. “Er, about what, exactly?”

“It _is_ going to be an early spring,” he says, and she laughs and hooks her arm through his.

“Gotta get a break sometime, right?”

He looks down at her, her face turned up to the sunshine. She looks happy. He wonders if it’s real.

“Yeah. Every once in awhile, something comes along.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After that, it keeps happening.

**Author's Note:**

> -Poor Deacon. He will probably go to his grave without ever realizing that she wasn’t the one who started things this time. Self awareness: not their strong suit.  
> -Couple of headcanon notes: a few things Deacon said leads me to believe that he's a bit older than he looks, I tend to feel on the late side of thirties, maybe even into his forties. The scars are a reference to his personal story- if you tell him he was brave to get out of the gang, he says that the Deathclaws took it out of his hide. He's probably lucky he made it out alive at all. Although given the givens, I doubt he sees it that way.  
> -Was it entirely necessary to put in an entire directionsverse subculture in with the caravan folk? Nope, but it sure was fun.  
> -I fully admit that the earlier draft of this had at least a partial sex scene, but boy was that not ever going anywhere. Once I excised it in favor of a tasteful fade to black, the whole thing flowed a lot more smoothly. Sorry guys, I had good intentions, just poor follow-through. Sometimes, alas, porn is not the answer.  
> -Yes I’m working in a sequel. Argh.
> 
> I'm [sorrelchestnut](http://sorrelchestnut.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
